BENSON, _alone in the room, is looking critically about her. She is a neat and pretty little English lady's maid in black silk and a thin apron. Still surveying the room, she moves here and there, and, her eyes lighting on the box of flowers, she goes to the door of_ VIDA'S _room and speaks to her._ BENSON. Yes, ma'am, the flowers have come. _She holds open the door through which_ VIDA, _in a morning gown, comes in slowly. She is smoking a cigarette in as aesthetic a manner as she can, and is evidently turned out in her best style for conquest._ VIDA. [_Faces the balcony as she speaks, and is, as always, even and civil, but a bit disdainful toward her servant._] Terribly garish light, Benson. Pull down the-- [BENSON, _obeying, partly pulls down the shade._] Lower still--that will do. [_As she speaks she goes about the room, giving the tables a push here and the chairs a jerk there, and generally arranging the vases and ornaments._] Men hate a clutter of chairs and tables. [_Stopping and taking up a hand mirror from the table, she faces the windows._] I really think I'm too pale for this light. BENSON. [_Quickly, understanding what is implied._] Yes, ma'am. [BENSON _goes out for the rouge, and_ VIDA _seats herself at the table. There is a knock at the door._] Come! [BROOKS _comes in._ BROOKS. [_An ultra-English footman, in plush and calves._] Any horders, m'lady? VIDA. [_Incapable of remembering the last man, or of considering the new one._] Oh,--of course! You're the new-- BROOKS. Footman, m'lady. VIDA. [_As a matter of form._] Your name? BROOKS. Brooks, m'lady. [BENSON _returns with the rouge._ VIDA. [_Carefully giving instructions while she keeps her eyes on the glass and is rouged by_ BENSON.] Brooks, I am at home to Mr. Karslake at eleven; not to any one else till twelve, when I expect Sir Wilfrid Cates-Darby. [BROOKS, _watching_ BENSON, _is inattentive._ BROOKS. Yes, m'lady. VIDA. [_Calm, but wearied by the ignorance of the lower classes._] And I regret to inform you, Brooks, that in America there are no ladies, except salesladies! BROOKS. [_Without a trace of comprehension._] Yes, m'lady. VIDA. I am at home to no one but the two names I have mentioned. [BROOKS _bows and exits. She dabs on rouge while_ BENSON _holds glass._] Is the men's club-room in order? BENSON. Perfectly, ma'am. VIDA. Whiskey and soda? BENSON. Yes, ma'am, and the ticker's been mended. The British sporting papers arrived this morning. VIDA. [_Looking at her watch which lies on the dressing-table._] My watch has stopped. BENSON. [_Glancing at the French clock on the chimney-piece._] Five to eleven, ma'am.